


Doing for Frodo

by Lbilover



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minas Tirith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 01:16:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: Frodo confuses duty and enjoyment. Sam sets him straight.





	Doing for Frodo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend's birthday. Inspired, in a roundabout way, by the dictionary.com word of the day 'chinwag'. It's such a hobbity sounding word. :-) Can be Frodo and Sam gen or Frodo/Sam, your druthers.

Frodo is fairly certain he's managed to hide his fatigue and sore feet from Sam, who is sitting in the corner with a pipe and a mug, talking to Gimli and Pippin. The murmur of their voices, punctuated by Sam's laugh, follows Frodo as he leaves the large common-room in the house the Company is sharing in Minas Tirith, and fills him with a quiet content. This is what he wants for Sam now that their Quest is over: beer and pipe weed and laughter with their dear friends, instead of the endless worry over Frodo's wellbeing that was his lot for so many months.

Frodo climbs the stone steps, no longer needing to conceal his wincing as still-tender soles protest after a day spent walking on the unforgiving cobblestone streets of the City. Once inside the bedroom he and Sam share, he sinks gratefully into a low padded wooden chair by the hearth and lets his head fall back with a sigh of relief. A cheerful fire burns in the grate and with its welcome warmth radiating on him, Frodo could drift off to sleep right there and then. But his aching feet want attention, so instead he sits up, rests his right foot on his left thigh and begins to knead it.

His fingers aren't nearly so skilled as Sam's at working out the knots and cramps, and despite his best intentions, he selfishly wishes for Sam and his almost uncanny ability to sense where the discomfort is and how exactly to ease it. His clumsier efforts will have to do this time, however, and he lets out a stifled gasp as a sharp stab of pain results from his inexpert pokes and prods.

'You should let me do that,' says a familiar voice, and Frodo jumps. It's Sam's voice, of course, and the next instant Sam is kneeling in front of Frodo on the hearth-rug, matter-of-factly taking his foot in large capable hands. 'I thought your feet were paining you. Seems I was right.'

'I can't keep anything from you, can I?' remarks Frodo ruefully.

'My gaffer would have some hard words for me if after all this time I couldn't tell when you were hurting.' With the ease of long practice, Sam balances Frodo's heel on his thigh. He runs his thumbs along the sole, unerringly locating the tenderest spot on the instep, and begins with exquisite care to work on it. 'The question is,' he continues, 'why you would _want_ to keep anything from me.'

'Because...' Frodo begins, trying to come up with some plausible excuse, but in the end the truth will out. 'Oh, because you've spent so many months taking care of me and I want you to enjoy yourself now, Sam, and not be bound by duty to me. You should still be downstairs with Gimli and Pippin.'

He expects Sam to protest, but to his surprise Sam simply shakes his head and huffs a laugh. 'Depends on what you call _enjoyment_ and _duty_. I reckon I enjoy a good chinwag as much as the next hobbit, but there's no greater joy for me nor ever has been than to take care of you, Frodo. It's never been a duty to me, not ever.'

Frodo smiles a little at the quaint Shire-word that he hasn't heard for what seems a lifetime, but the larger impact of what Sam has said leaves him abashed. 'You honestly feel that way, Sam?' he asks.

'Of course I do, and everyone knows it - except for you, seemingly.' Sam looks straight at Frodo as he speaks, his clear-eyed gaze open as ever, hiding nothing. He is, as he always has been, the most honest hobbit Frodo has ever known. 'Now sit back and close your eyes and let your Sam do for you.'

'All right.' Frodo settles back without argument, for only a fool would argue, and Frodo may be many things but he hopes he is not a fool. The truth is writ large not only in Sam's words, but in his expression: doing for Frodo, as he puts it, and unaccountable as it might seem to Frodo, does indeed bring him joy. 

A pleasing languor steals over Frodo as Sam sets to work on his sore feet, one at a time, coaxing the pain out with infinite patience and loving care. At some point during the process, his fatigue catches up with him and Frodo falls sound asleep, a deep, dreamless, healing sleep.

He wakes hours later in the middle of the night to find himself in bed, dressed in his nightshirt, with no memory at all of how he got there, though of course he knows it was Sam's doing. The moon is sailing high in the sky and a cool northwest breeze blows through the windows. The fire has gone out and it's chilly in the room, and instinctively Frodo turns to seek the warmth of the hobbit sleeping soundly beside him. Sam's arms just as instinctively open to gather him in, and as Frodo burrows against him with a contented sigh, a stray shaft moonlight falls on Sam's face, illuminating the joyful smile that, even in sleep, doing for Frodo has brought to his lips. 

~end~


End file.
